


Number of Years

by missbeizy



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Anal Sex, Avengers Tower, Blow Jobs, Bottom Steve, Breast Fucking, First Time, Hand Jobs, Idiots in Love, M/M, Porn with Feelings, Top Bucky Barnes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-19
Updated: 2019-01-19
Packaged: 2019-10-12 20:51:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,925
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17474783
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/missbeizy/pseuds/missbeizy
Summary: Unashamed Tower!Stucky porn. References to past-and-casual Steve/Thor.Steve Rogers from across a room is as distracting as Steve Rogers close up; there is a shivering tendril living in Bucky's scrambled brain that seeks Steve like magnetic north, even now. Steve is his constant, as his therapist often and unnecessarily reminds him. His childhood best friend and companion, his bunk-mate, his savior, his Captain, his mission.





	Number of Years

Bucky watches.

It's one of the few habits he has left over from his youth; the observational skills of a sniper ( _assassin_ , whispers the traitorous voice of his lizard brain) are instinctive and honed through years of training and the application of said training ( _murder_ , says the voice).

When he moves into the Tower he navigates his recovery by relying heavily on this aptitude—watching from the shadows, gathering data and crafting responses accordingly. He isn't subject to triggered episodes anymore, but his mind is prone to fractures and he is relearning how to be a person while dealing with dozens of other challenges, including but not limited to regaining memories both wonderful and horrific, trying to form positive bonds with the other denizens of the Tower, and—

Well.

Steve Rogers from across a room is as distracting as Steve Rogers close up; there is a shivering tendril living in Bucky's scrambled brain that seeks Steve like magnetic north, even now. Steve is his constant, as his therapist often and unnecessarily reminds him. His childhood best friend and companion, his bunk-mate, his savior, his Captain, his mission.

At first, intense attachment to Steve is about grounding himself—he feels _real_ , alive, able to carry on because Steve supports and lauds his baby steps. The intensity settles over time, until they are a blend of what they are and used to be: adoring smiles and gazes but physical contact limited to back-slapping hugs and otherwise brief touch. As children and then young men, they were freer with their affections. Even back then, Bucky wasn't fussed about being different. He's known about and been comfortable being queer since puberty.

During the war, he experienced a wide range of human interaction that made him even more tolerant. On the battlefield they took what they got when they got it, including men who were only desperate for affirmation of life and limb. Some went home to sweethearts, dreams of marriage and family dancing in their heads. Others clung to lovers they could lose any day, either fellow soldiers or locals they met while serving. Many died young, ugly and suddenly. No matter which way it went, the war itself was a shitstorm of blood and disappointment and waiting for things to happen interspersed with moments of too much happening too fast.

Steve _gets_ that. Gets what they went through. Gets Bucky, even when Bucky doesn't get himself.

Bucky watches, and doesn't analyze why he does. Watches Steve talking with the Avengers over meals. Occupying labs, gymnasiums, hangar bays, quinjets, diners, and hallways. At the other end of the mat, sparring with Natasha, a flurry of muscle and pale hair and sweat—and a determination to win, no matter what. It makes Bucky's heart stutter in his chest, like Steve has a fist around it. Maybe he always has.

 

*

 

Thor visits, Asgardian mead in tow. Steve is recovering from a two-day-old injury, so Thor visits him privately after the group dinner. Bucky missed most of the evening, having committed to an arm upgrade session with Stark weeks ago. He nurses the resulting ache in his shoulder as he walks past Steve's room to his own, which is two doors down the hall. He pauses in front of Steve's door. Steve and Thor laugh so loudly it startles him. Hunger twists in his belly. He knocks before he thinks about it.

"Barnes!" Flushed and damp-eyed with mirth, Thor ushers him inside. "Excellent. Another recipient of my mighty gift."

Bucky smiles. "Hi. How are you?" He can do small talk. He can be cool, even around a god.

Steve is sprawled across the couch, his shoulders wedged against the back cushions, knee-length shorts and a tank top not concealing the bandages wrapped around his torso and right foot.

He exhales happily when the door opens. "Buck. Hey. C'mere. C'me have some. How's your arm?"

There are two pints on the coffee table. Thor sets down a third and then sits next to Steve.

Bucky sits opposite them in a chair of his own. "Good. Made progress." Steve smiles, slow and sweet enough to show dimples. The back of Bucky's neck flushes. "Last time, the L14 quad on the right side was shorting out micro-coils like a son of a bitch. Stark finally figured out the batch was bad, something about unbalanced metal composition."

Thor nudges Bucky's drink across the table. "Celebrate this victory."

" _Best_ idea." Steve takes a long, lusty gulp from his pint. "To the L14 quad and everything it stands for."

Blatantly staring at Steve, Bucky's pint sits neglected. "This stuff work on us?"

"You weren't here the last time we celebrated?" Thor asks, as if this is a crime against friendship itself.

Steve watches Bucky's face as he answers for him. "Bucky was still coming off the drug cocktail then."

Bucky snorts. "Same way you're recovering from a van falling on you right now?" His left eyebrow lifts. "While getting drunk as a priest on a Monday?"

The soft evasion that plays across Steve's face is almost _flirtatious_. Or Bucky is imagining that. Or Steve is farther gone than Bucky guessed.

"I'm practically _healed_ ," Steve says. Thor thoughtfully punches him in the side. "Ow!"

Laughing, Bucky salutes Steve with his glass. "Don't feel bad. We can't all have god-like constitutions."

"Eh, close enough." Cheeks flaming red, Steve tilts his head at Bucky, holding eye contact as his free hand slides down the length of his own thigh. "You're gonna have to help me drink it, then."

Thor smirks into his glass before setting it down and reclining again, this time much closer to Steve.

Bucky watches.

Even the Asgardian mead isn't enough to completely knock them on their asses—by the time they approach that point, their metabolism is well on its way to negating the effect—but it does get them nice and drunk. Thor regales them with hunting stories after Bucky perks up at talk of "alien" fauna.

"Space deer," he sighs happily. "Space deer with fire antlers. Fuck yes, the universe is still worth saving."

"Yeesh." Steve shifts onto his good side, which almost lands him in Thor's lap. Thor leans into Steve and Steve's left hand falls across Thor's knee. "That's your threshold? Space deer?"

"You have no poetry in your soul, Rogers."

"Perhaps somewhere, deep down, an epic for the ages—" Thor waves his pint around unevenly. "—regarding battle strategy."

Bucky throws a pretzel at Thor, who catches it in his open mouth and crunches it enthusiastically without missing a beat. Without moving Steve's hand away from his knee. Bucky refills his own glass at the sidebar, listening to them laugh and observing their casual intimacy out of the corner of his eye.

It isn't the first time Bucky has seen someone get close to Steve like this—there were men during the war and Peggy, of course, who made Bucky as jealous of Steve as Bucky was of her—but those episodes were fleeting and fraught with danger and there were more important things to worry about.

They have never discussed Steve's post-thaw romantic relationships, so Bucky fails to work up the courage to ask Steve about his and Thor's history that night. Instead, he blurts it out the next time they're alone and it's on the tip of his tongue.

"You and Thor a thing?" His words are muted by the noise of water on tile, barely carrying over the shower divider wall. He considers drowning himself in the five seconds of silence that follow.

Steve laughs under his breath. "Hell of a place to ask that question." He puts his back to the spray, facing Bucky instead, which makes the rest of what he says easier to hear. "Uh, there was—he was going through a rough patch. I was living permanently in one. There was this one long weekend—unplanned, didn't even know we would end up alone. Just, happened, I guess?" Steve's spiky-wet eyelashes fan over red cheeks. "It was nice." He shrugs, his wide shoulders cascading droplets. "He was nice."

Bucky can't _hear_ over the noise of his own heart beating in his chest. "Figured."

Steve makes partial eye contact, hesitates, then says, "Gotta admit: I've been waiting for you to ask."

On fire from head to toe, Bucky opens his metal palm, water puddling in and then slipping over the plates. "Far as I know, you ain't ring shopping." He shrugs. "Not my business yet."

Steve's lips twitch. "'Yet'? Gonna talk me off the matrimonial ledge when the time comes?"

"Tell me now if you're thinking of picking someone else for best man." He smiles behind a playful squint. "If it's Sam, we're fighting for it." He mimes punching a loofah over the shower wall. "To the death."

"All right, reign it in, cowboy." Laughing, Steve turns off his shower and towels his hair and shoulders before wrapping the thick cloth around his waist. "I haven't been on a second date since Peggy. Marriage isn't exactly on my radar."

After showering, they dress at their lockers, exchanging the occasional sideways glance. "Hey." Adjusting the hood of his sweatshirt, Bucky forces himself to make eye contact with Steve. "Felt like I had to break the ice, there. You never—" Steve goes red down the neckline of his T-shirt. "I mean, you never _had_ to say. Of course. Just wanted you to know I got your back."

He wants to say _me, too, Steve_ , but finds he can't.

"Oh." Steve aborts halfway through an arm-cross to shove his hands in his pockets instead. "Yeah. It's—new. To not have to worry about it." He clears his throat. "Being with men same as women."

The silence between them thickens and stretches. Bucky licks his lips, watching a drop of water slide slowly down the side of Steve's neck. "Glad to hear it, pal."

Steve cups the back of his flushed neck. "Thanks."

Inside the elevator, Bucky asks with a cheeky smile, "So Thor's your type, huh?"

Steve laughs, looking at the floor. "Uh. I dunno." He pauses, obviously thinking, then adds, "I guess I do like 'em on the bigger side."

If Bucky laughs, maybe he won't panic. "Steven _Grant_. My ears'll burn right off."

Steve makes eye contact through their reflections in the elevator doors. He smiles lopsidedly. "Oh, come on. Who doesn't like a guy who can handle 'em?"

On second thought, panic works, too.

 

*

 

"'It'll be fine,' he says." Steve drags Bucky along. "'Tony ran the simulation and it checked out,' he says."

Bucky glowers over his metal arm, which is currently wrapped in multiple layers of composite padding and gauze. "What kind of twisted creature would refuse the offer of _laser beams_?"

"Laser beams that went zap in the wrong direction!" Steve unceremoniously drops Bucky onto the bed.

"Yeah, yeah, we're working on it. Ow. _Ow_."

Bucky doesn't know what's worse: the injury, the fact that Steve's bulging biceps supported him all the way here and he didn't get to fully enjoy it or the painful rapid-healing the serum affords him.

Steve sits at the end of the bed, his thigh touching Bucky's calf. "Got everything you need?"

There's not much else to do besides take the serum-friendly medicines they discharged him with and laze around. "Sure thing, Nurse Rogers."

"I take that as the highest compliment." Steve plays with the ankle tie dangling from the bottom of Bucky's sweatpants. "But you're wrong; you're definitely missing something."

Bucky prepares to disagree, which is clearly the wrong response, because Steve proceeds to crawl across the bed and lay down next to him. Like, right next to him. Right fucking _there_ , hot to the touch in a Henley and jeans that actually flatter him (when did that happen?) and soft socks (where did his shoes go?), propping his head up on one hand while tucking the other into Bucky's sweatshirt pocket.

"Ha," Bucky huffs, sounding like a goose that's already in the process of dying being heavily stepped on.

"You did it for me." Steve fidgets. "Hey, I'm kidding if you'd rather be alone. You do need sleep."

"Not gonna happen. At least not until the first few hours of healing wears off. These pills don't do shit."

Steve winces sympathetically. "You get that too? Yeah, it's awful."

During the silence that follows, Bucky tries not to think about Steve's big, warm hand inside his pocket.

He thinks of saying _me, too, Steve_. They haven't revisited that conversation or its subject matter since, but they have begun to exchange appreciative looks when they see attractive people of any gender. This new development feels safe but also impersonal; Bucky isn't sure how he feels about it, but he supposes it's a long journey from "our sexualities match, neat!" to "I wanna be the guy who handles you".

Despite his insistence, the drugs kick in. As he drifts off, reveling in shared body heat, he has the (probably inebriated) thought that they can solve this problem the way they usually do: _with violence_.

 

*

 

After waiting to ensure their bodies are in peak condition, Bucky asks Steve to spar with him.

They haven't sparred one-on-one excessively since reuniting. Despite his exceptional recovery, Bucky still doesn't trust himself to unleash violence completely and directly at Steve—but he also can't deny Steve in full fighting form is a sight to behold. He is brutal, relentless and efficient.

Bucky hesitates less as he becomes comfortable with their ability to meet each other equally in combat. During one session, he doesn't hesitate before flipping Steve down onto the mat with a growl.

"Shit," Steve grunts, breaking free of the pin. "Come on, man, give me the other one. Stop playing." His chest heaves with uneven breath—the white tank top barely containing him transparent with sweat.

The challenge makes Bucky's blood boil. He grins like he has fangs, lifting his metal arm—the whir of the plates rearranging fills the cavernous space between them. He licks salt off his upper lip. "Yeah? Want this? Come and get it."

They trade blows and dodges, hit the mat and a wall more than once, but Bucky finally sends Steve face-first into a stack of floor mats. He pins one of Steve's arms in the small of his back and the other against the mats above their heads, then slots his left leg between and around Steve's to secure an ankle hold.

Steve pants, hot rushes of breath laced with sharp hitches. "God, that thing is stronger than ever."

Floating on a wave of adrenaline, Bucky noses into the sweat-damp hair behind Steve's ear. He doesn't recognize himself in the rasp of his own voice when he exhales, "Yeah, you like that, huh?" He closes his eyes and tightens his metal fingers around Steve's wrist.

Steve's shoulder blades heave against his chest. "Now you're not pulling those punches."

Bucky drops his hold and turns Steve around, then backs up slowly, hands raised, fingers flesh and metal alike beckoning Steve. "I'll show you not pulling punches, asshole."

"Round two?" Steve licks his lips.

"Round two."

 

*

 

"Violence didn't solve it," Bucky grumbles drunkenly.

"Yeah, I got that from the four AM sad-sack text and the space hooch all over my coffee table, damn, man," Sam replies. "I not only loved this table, I was _committed_ to it."

Bucky swallows defeat (which tastes remarkably like stomach bile). "I am actually sorry about that."

"You are genuinely scary when you apologize and mean it. I'm calling somebody else to super-solider-sit tonight." Phone against his ear, Sam squints at Bucky. "Hold up, violence didn't solve _what_?"

 

*

 

"Violence didn't solve it," Natasha mumbles thoughtfully, as if this does not quite compute, working the tip of a knife under her fingernail.

"I know, right?" Bucky asks, though she—like Sam—has no idea what he's been moping vaguely about. He flings a knife handle-deep into the center of a target. The resulting _thunk_ is irritatingly lackluster.

 

*

 

"Naturally violence did not solve it," Thor says, slow and easy and bulging with muscles. Bucky doesn't know whether he wants to chew on those thighs or be jealous of Thor for—

_Fuck._

He doesn't know what exactly Thor and Steve did over the course of that long weekend, but his mind refuses to settle on any particular image for too long before it starts to overheat.

"Matters of the heart must be handled with delicate care," Thor finishes, passing Bucky the remote. "It's not working."

"Uh, you broke it."

"Oh," Thor sighs. "I am sorry." He sighs again, this time at the television. "I truly dislike 'baking competitions'."

Bucky isn't sure the Avengers are helping him much, here, but he hasn't _explained_ the issue, so—

_Wait._

"Matters of the heart?" he asks.

Thor looks at him. "Steve can be unpredictable. You know this better than anyone."

_Well, fuck._

"Uh."

Thor gives Bucky a thorough visual once-over, then winks heavily. "I imagine you're up to the task."

 

*

 

"I can't believe you." Steve sighs. "After everything we've been through—"

Bucky mirrors the sigh. "I know, Stevie. I know this is a shock."

"It's been so long since—"

"Yeah. Yeah, buddy. I get that."

Steve looks at him. "I _needed_ that property."

"Capitalism is a destructive force," Bucky concedes with yet another heavy sigh.

"That's what I said when you suggested we play this game."

It takes only seconds for to Steve crack, laughing so hard he falls over, nearly taking the Monopoly board with him. He's flushed and looks happy. Bucky would bottle the way this moment feels, if he could.

"How are you so bad at this?"

Steve rolls neatly onto the balls of his feet and vaults over the table to the couch where Bucky sits. He has a sweetly indulgent look on his face. "I like watching you win, from time to time."

Bucky pounces like a man who isn't built like a brick shithouse, pinning Steve against the couch and tickling him. "Little shit, taking dives on me, huh?" He grins, resisting Steve's attempts to throw him off.

Shrieking, Steve flips Bucky head-over-heels over the armrest of the couch. "Sucker!"

They do that thing where they intend to mess around but stop before furniture is destroyed, and then—well, furniture is destroyed. After cleaning up, they fall asleep on the chaise lounge, side-by-side and covered in bruises that are already fading.

Bucky wakes up in the middle of the night. The ambient lighting around the edges of the room provides more than enough illumination for him to see by, but it's only when he sits up that he realizes his head has been in Steve's lap. Steve stirs moments later, his hands searching in the dark—one of them finds Bucky's hair and tangles in it, using the grip to draw Bucky close again. "Hey there, solider."

Bucky groans against his chest. The T-shirt he wears is worn soft and smells like laundry detergent and skin. The hunger this warm, yeasty-sweet scent creates in Bucky _hurts_ , it's that intense. He drags his cheek up Steve's chest and between his firm pecs, stubble rasping across the material all the way to his collarbone where Bucky stops, breathing fast, excited and panicked in equal measures.

"C'mere," he murmurs against Steve's neck, "little spoon."

Steve's chest vibrates with laughter. "Not anymore."

Scoffing, Bucky hauls Steve against his chest, metal arm whispering as it tightens around Steve's waist.

"That, uh," Steve whispers roughly, twitching into submission and sleep, "works, too."

 

*

 

Protocol states they must go through decontamination and debriefing before returning to the residential floors, but after four days fleeing on foot through a South American jungle, Bucky isn't having that. He's tired, smells like rotting compost and ran out of patience thirty-six hours ago. He takes one look down the hallway that leads to Hell (otherwise known as "conference rooms 37-45") and one look at the elevators and makes an executive decision.

"Wrong turn, tiger," he says when Steve stalks toward the conference room, looking bullheadedly determined to remain not only upright but at attention to the bitter end.

"We're filthy, " Steve protests, "and they're waiting."

Bucky bends down and lifts Steve over his shoulder in an effortless fireman's carry. "Man, you gotta be more careful about tripping and falling on people." He pats Steve's squirming thighs consolingly.

"You're tapped, aren't you?" Steve asks in a dry, defeated tone as Bucky carries him into the elevator under the wide-eyed stares of essentially everyone they know.

"You ain't that heavy, princess."

Typically, Steve would be elbow-deep in mission data already, analyzing what went wrong and planning for the next one—but boneless over Bucky's shoulder, he gives in. It's suspiciously easy.

Bucky deposits Steve on his own bed, stifling a smile at the sight of him in tactical gear hugging a body pillow to his debris-strewn chest like a stuffed animal. "Catch up after sleep?"

Slit-eyed and stubbly, Steve looks up him. "Stay?"

Half a stride of hesitation. He wants to say something but doesn't. Shrugs off a few pieces of equipment and sits on the other side of the bed. He falls asleep in minutes.

In the middle of the night, Steve leaves to shower. He loses track of time, but it's at least three hours between Steve's shower and dawn, when he decides to do the same. After, clean boxer-briefs tugged hastily on, he passes out again, soaking Steve's spare pillow with his wet hair. The next time he wakes up it's dark again, which means they've slept through the day. Not even JARVIS bothered them.

Steve is asleep lying on his stomach, dead to the world in a rumpled dark blue T-shirt and striped boxers. Bucky puts his metal arm over Steve's back and falls asleep again.

Two hours later, his empty stomach screams in protest and wakes him up, but Steve is deliciously warm under his metal fingertips. Mumbling sleepily, he slides his hand up the back of Steve's T-shirt, splaying his fingers across hot skin and inhaling sharply at the feedback that stimulates his arm sensors. Drifting in and out of sleep, he extends the plates around his fingertips, forming ridges large enough to scratch up and down Steve's bare back. He imagines the pink lines the metal leaves behind, and when Steve starts to shift around and breathe faster, he does, too.

Waking up, Steve whimpers into his pillow and then laughs, embarrassed. "F—god, that feels good."

Bucky scratches Steve's entire back, savoring the contact—but when the urgency this brings doesn't fade, he abandons his fear of taking things further. Fingertips drifting over the small of Steve's back directly above those sweet dimples, he whispers into Steve's neck, "Take off your shirt."

Steve hesitates, then grips the shirt between his shoulder blades and pulls it over his head.

 _Christ_.

Bucky drinks in the sight of him—corded muscle thickly banded around his upper body, the delicate taper of his spine, so strikingly dividing all that bulk, the sinful tuck of his small waist and hips bleeding into the rock-hard bubble of his ass and those powerful thighs.

The raised, red lines Bucky left across Steve's back are like the marks of a hundred tiny whips. He traces them with his metal fingertips, taking his time. He put them there, and Steve is trembling. Emboldened by success, Bucky digs his fingers into the short hair at the back of Steve's head and gently tugs on it.

" _Huh_ —ha." Steve's ribs expand and contract visibly.

Shaking, Bucky noses behind his ear. "Sweet when you want to be, huh?"

Steve exhales unevenly. "You cave-manned me up here. In front of _everyone_."

"Not the first time I dragged your ass away for R&R."

All at once Steve sits up, winces and moves toward the bathroom. "Mother hen."

Bucky clucks like a chicken until Steve laughs and closes the bathroom door between them.

 

*

 

Bucky leverages social situations to his advantage. In mixed company, it's easier to attach himself to Steve's side—to touch feet under the table or brush hands passing a bottle, to sneak an arm around the back of Steve's chair, to stare like a besotted teenager because his is just another face in the crowd.

One thing remains the same: drunk or sober, they don't dance. Bucky remembers loving to dance—but those memories are faded, and his current body is a disparate creature.

"You hated dance halls," he says to Steve at a gathering one Saturday night.

Bucky can't take his eyes off the button straining at the widest part of Steve's chest, where a purple tie sits against a darker purple button-up. That little fella's odds of survival aren't great.

"Even if I had felt welcome, which I didn't, I always thought there were better things I could be doing," Steve replies.

Bucky smiles. "You implying I had nothing better to do?"

Steve smiles back. "Nah. Never would've wanted you to leave your sweethearts pining."

Bucky doesn't respond to that, because the only thing that comes to mind is "what sweethearts other than _you_?" because he remembers little about that aside from a select few names and faces.

Sam hits him up for conversation, but his mind is elsewhere, and it shows. After a minute or two, Sam laughs politely, claps Bucky on the shoulder and wanders off, shaking his head. Bucky wonders if Thor has shared his suspicions about Steve and Bucky with the group or if Bucky is simply that obvious.

Shortly after midnight, the party has mostly broken up and Bucky is ready to leave. He and Steve exit at the same time, still paired off when the elevator spits them out onto their floor.

Bucky wonders if Steve knows—not about how he feels for Steve, but their shared affinity. Heart pounding in his ears, he stops halfway down the hall.

"Buck?" Steve asks.

He thinks about saying goodnight. Instead, he closes the distance between them and stares at Steve like an idiot before saying, "I wanna dance with you."

Steve looks around as if waiting to hear music, blushing down the collar of his shirt. "H-huh?"

Wearing a matching blush, Bucky walks backward until his back collides with his door. Steve prowls delicately toward him, matching him step for slow step—except Steve doesn't stop until their chests are almost touching and every nerve in Bucky's body tries to fire at once.

"You serious," Steve breathes, neither a question nor statement.

Bucky stands straighter and lifts his shoulders into combat readiness, wrapping Steve's tie around his flesh hand in two slow turns. Steve's chest rises suddenly as his breath catches. Bucky pulls him in by the tie, pressing and rolling their foreheads together. He tightens his grip and the tie bites into Steve's neck as they share shaky breath. Fuck. Fuck, he is _doing_ this to Steve.

He raises his metal hand to the digital display built into the door. Several different locks click open, one after the other. His weight pushes the door open. They stop walking after it's locked behind them.

Bucky maintains eye contact while letting Steve's tie slip slowly through his fingers. "JARVIS? Play music and engage privacy mode, please."

"Yes, Mr. Barnes," JARVIS replies. "I know just the music." A popular song from when they were teenagers begins to play.

Steve stares at Bucky, looking shell-shocked. "I still can't dance. Serum didn't come with lessons."

Bucky smiles. "I can't pull off the moves you remember, anyway."

Steve looks down between them, the apples of his cheeks as pretty as the shine in his eye, then looks up, his bottom lip glistening. "What's wrong with new moves?"

Stomach in his shoes, Bucky wraps his hands around Steve's waist, metal first and flesh second. The ease with which Steve's arms snake around his shoulders in response takes his breath away.

Why has it taken him so long to _realize_ —

"Not a damned thing," he rasps, sliding his metal hand up the middle of Steve's back while the flesh one curls up and over Steve's shoulder.

They sway in time with the music. They're not very good at it. Steve especially is stiff at first, but after a song change he ducks down, trying to make himself smaller, and rolls his cheek over Bucky's shoulder. After another song change, he presses his face against Bucky's throat and breathes in deeply.

Shaking with it, Bucky exhales loudly into his hair. "Think of all those rugs we coulda cut, Stevie."

Steve laughs. "Doormats, maybe."

Bucky traces Steve's cheekbone with his thumb. "Okay, so this ain't the Lindy." The song changes again—this time, the warbling trill of a young man singing about love. Bucky's youth is grab bag of recollections fuzzy, faded and full of holes. But this, right here? This is _crystal_ fucking clear.

Steve senses his excitement and leans in close, nudging their noses together. "Jesus. How long?"

Bucky exhales shakily and closes his eyes. "As long as I've known you, and in more ways than the number of years we've lived."

"Bucky," Steve moans, and kisses him.

Bucky opens his mouth and lets Steve in. He only realizes Steve's biceps are caging his head when the space behind his eyelids darkens further. He laughs, which makes Steve laugh, too, then curl up around Bucky's shoulders like an octopus. The servos in Bucky's arm whir as he makes a fist in the back Steve's shirt. "I used to dream about this mouth." Steve whimpers around Bucky's thumb pushing its way inside. "Looked like candy then, looks like candy now." He pulls away, basking in Steve's kissed-raw expression.

"Couch?" Steve asks breathlessly.

They sit side by side on a couch that barely fits them, Steve's fingers sliding into his hair and his flesh hand gripping the small of Steve's back. He kisses Steve soft and shallow, drawing his mouth forward with each parting, until Steve stops to smile and breathe against Bucky's lips.

Steve presses their foreheads together. "I wondered, but I figured I was seeing what I wanted to see."

"There were times I wasn't so good at pretending, with you."

"Even before...?" Steve kisses his jaw, then beneath it, then down the side of his neck to his ear.

Tilting his head back, Bucky exhales roughly. "Before. During. After. Fucking worship any version of you, you gotta know that by now."

Steve's blush darkens. "You sure? Be sure. P-please be sure, 'cause the things I _want_ —"

Before Steve says another word, the assemble alarm goes off above their heads.

 

*

 

Loving someone and wanting to fuck them through walls doesn't always change the fact that they are still a risk- _taking_ , shit- _kicking_ son of a—okay, so Bucky remembers having more respect for Sarah Rogers than to go down that road. (But his point stands.) A simple rescue/intelligence grab operation in England goes sideways, Steve essentially hurls himself across a canyon on a mountain bike to capture an escaping Hydra agent, then takes out the other side of the canyon wall Just to Be Sure.

Bucky drags Steve by the scruff of his neck out of the landslide, snarling when he has the nerve to _grin_ , the Hydra agent's information satchel clutched in his hand.

"You're lucky you're hot," Bucky growls, throwing Steve over his shoulder and steering them out of the canyon. "Stark is holding the structure so the others can get out. Are your comms down?"

Steve touches his ear. "Lost it over the ravine." When he speaks next, a hint of Captain America emerges in the tone of his voice."Okay. There's a safe house six klicks from here with secure network access. We upload the data from there, lie low for a few days. Stark wouldn't want us exiting the area all at once."

They're within one klick of the safe house when a patrol of Hydra soldiers appear out of the trees. Bristling and hulking, Steve hefts his shield and takes a step in front of Bucky, who preps his arm and cocks the rifle he stole from the facility in the other, just behind Steve at his right hand.

Between the two of them and every natural piece of cover and heavy object in the clearing, they incapacitate twelve Hydra soldiers without suffering serious injury. Bucky breaks radio silence to call in a clean-up team. By the time that task is complete, they're exhausted, bruised and filthy.

After a perimeter check and setting the data to upload, Bucky drops his gear and unzips the top of his suit. "Gotta say, I had more than my fair share of English countryside during the war."

Bucky gets the first aid kit and helps cut Steve's blood-stained tank top off. Steve strips down to his underwear, the sharply cut planes of his hips gathering shadows while his boxer-briefs catch on the pronounced, round swell of his package. Debris-and-blood speckled, muscles still tense from the mission, Steve looks _delicious_ , and Bucky thinks that maybe he knows exactly what he's doing.

Steve stops at the bathroom door, hip cocked and one elbow braced against the frame. He ducks his head and smiles, then looks up at Bucky through his eyelashes, hooking a thumb in the waistband of his briefs so that they slip down an inch or two. "You comin'?" Bucky's mouth floods with saliva as Steve slides the briefs over his chubbed-up cock and down his thick thighs before flicking them off his ankle.

There's not much more to the shower than warm water and cheap soap, but Steve bulky and blushing under the spray more than compensates for the lack of amenities.

Bucky wraps his arms around Steve's waist and presses him back against the tile, beyond the reach of the shower's head. He slides his hands over Steve's chest, squeezing both pecs as he kisses his neck.

"What if I wanna do all the work?" he whispers in Steve's ear, playing with the nipples hardening between his fingertips. "On my knees, right here." He noses along Steve's jaw while his metal fingers play with the hair between his cock and bellybutton. "Hm?"

Eyelids fluttering, Steve tips his head back. "B-Buck."

Momentarily satisfied with that, Bucky draws his metal thumb across Steve's hip, then takes a half-step backward simply to _look_ , drinking Steve in from dripping head to glorious toe. He places a line of wet, open-mouthed kisses from Steve's clavicle, sinking between his heaving tits and the washboard abs that go concave when he kisses them—from there across Steve's pelvis and thighs, stopping to rub against the crisp blond curls that frame his cock. Bucky lets it touch his cheek and it gushes, cloudy spurts of precome sliding down the shaft.

"Fuck," Bucky groans, the musky-salty smell blowing up in his nostrils. It instantly connects with his hunger response—his cock throbs and stands up against his belly and he hides his face at the dark junction of Steve's thigh and groin, where he breathes in deeply, filling his lungs.

"God, please," Steve blurts, suddenly, his voice breaking as a blush races down his chest. "Please, _fuck_ , please." His fat, long cock bobs beside Bucky's head, so messy his balls are already filthy with slick. Bucky wraps his metal hand around Steve's cock and strokes. It leaks, its swollen red slit winking droplets while Steve cries out and puts a hand on Bucky's shoulder to steady himself. "I can't stop." Steve sobs and comes in Bucky's shiny grip, christening everything between them, including Bucky's face.

Bucky kisses the wet, throbbing tip. "If you're anything like me, it takes more than one round."

"Yes _,_ " Steve whimpers.

Bucky suckles the head, then swallows the shaft with a satisfied, muffled grunt. Shaking, Steve presses deeper, his free hand finding Bucky's hair. Bucky rolls and squeezes Steve's balls in his metal hand, letting his throat close around the head of Steve's cock. He pulls off, his metal palm glinting as it disappears behind Steve's balls. Steve spreads his legs, his lips forming a perfect, pink o when Bucky curls the digits.

Steve's knees wobble. " _Fuck_."

"There we go," Bucky drawls, twisting and rock his wrist.

Steve's cock jerks in midair and dribbles again—Bucky presses, hard, then rubs concise circles over Steve's perineum. He wraps his flesh hand around the shaft and strokes it up and down, tracing his bottom lip with the engorged head. "You wanna come in my mouth, you're gonna have to get in it."

"Christ," Steve whines, fingers digging into Bucky's scalp as he thrusts deeper, filling Bucky's mouth once, twice, carefully—then faster, smoother, less carefully, again and again and again. Bucky lets him, holding fast against increasingly erratic thrusts, his hips colliding rhythmically with Bucky's chin. His fingers twist in Bucky's hair, then spasm and fall to Bucky's jaw when Bucky sucks harder. "Fucking gorgeous—" Steve cuts off Bucky's air, the wet _gluck gluck gluck_ echoing off the tile, and then comes down his throat.

After that, he stops counting—he swallows several times and there's so much of it he feels _full_.

Finally, Steve softens and slips out of his mouth with a broken noise. "Oh my god."

He kisses across Steve's belly, smiling slyly. "All empty, sweetheart?"

Steve kisses his shoulder and then his jaw, fingers skating along his chest. "You didn't finish."

"I got no complaints."

Steve noses into his hair while wrapping a towel around his waist. They walk on shaky legs to the bedroom. "Making me come six times in a row was the plan?"

"More of a general philosophy, really."

Steve laughs, low and rough. "I've got a few of those myself. Wanna hear about 'em?"

Bucky falls onto his back across the bed. "You never bothered to ask before laying those on me before. Why start now?" Laughing, Steve straddles his thighs and bends to kiss him. He sighs into it contentedly.

The data upload finishes. Bucky speaks to Nat while Steve speaks to Tony. After receiving instructions to maintain their position for forty-eight hours, they go radio silent. After breaking into the field rations for dinner, they strip and go back to bed. Bucky curls up behind Steve, kissing his neck. He pulls Bucky closer.

Exhaling roughly, Steve laces their fingers together. "If I'd known this was coming my way..."

"Mm. Yeah?"

Steve laughs. "You gave me my first hard-on. Do the math."

"You shitting me?"

"Not all of us were healthy enough to pop at a stiff wind."

Bucky snorts. "Okay. What happened?"

"I was sitting on the fire escape watching you play in a busted open hydrant down on the street with some kids. You were maybe fourteen? Soaked from head to toe. Nothing left to the imagination. That was an interesting morning after."

After a moment's hesitation, Bucky smiles. "For me it was your hands. You punched assholes with 'em and then went off and drew pretty pictures. And your mouth—even cleaning blood off your lips made my dick twitch." Breathing faster, Steve lifts their laced hands and mouths across Bucky's knuckles.

All at once, Bucky is overwhelmed by the need he ignored while on his knees before. Trembling, he brings Steve's hand to his cock, then moans when Steve's fingers wrap around and stroke the thick shaft.

"Just like that," he breathes shakily, guiding Steve's hand, "fuck. Yeah. Yeah."

Steve rolls over and kisses down Bucky's chest, tongue and teeth first. He pumps his hand, tracing the glans and wet tip with his thumb, licking his lips as if he's already tasting it. The bed squeaks as Bucky reclines and pulls Steve on top of him between his thighs, watching the damp wonder on Steve's face when Bucky replaces Steve's hand with his own. He strokes himself in front of Steve's lips, heartbeat roaring in his ears, then traces Steve's mouth with the head. Steve parts his lips and suckles at the head, high-pitched noises breaking in his throat as he _tastes_ , inching down, licking and swallowing.

"Fuck. _Fuck_ , baby. You trying to get me there already?" Eyes flashing, Steve sinks down until his nose is buried in Bucky's pubic hair. Bucky inhales sharply. "Want that mouthful bad, huh?"

He expects sass, not Steve pulling off with a wet, obscene noise and moaning, "Please."

Bucky growls and flips them over, pinning Steve under him. He enjoys the view while exploring Steve's chest—idly at first, then focusing on his tits, squeezing the mounds of flesh between his fingers and working Steve's nipples until they're overstimulated and standing up. His cock is hard between them, already leaving a mess behind on Steve's skin.

Pupils blown, Steve licks his lips. "Rub it on me?"

_Fuck._

"Yeah?" Bucky traces Steve's concave stomach with his cock. "You like that mess all over you?" He rubs his cock on Steve's right tit, circling the head around the nipple before letting it penetrates his slit, digging in far enough to make his thighs _twitch_ —nothing compared to the broken sob Steve lets out. "Gonna make me ask?" Bucky slides his cock up and down between Steve's tits. Veins stand out against the skin of Steve's bulging biceps as he presses his pecs together, forcing them to almost close around Bucky's cock. "That's it. Show 'em off for me, darlin'. So fuckin' pretty." Groaning, he grips Steve's left tit with his metal fingers, thrusting fast and hard, the bed shaking and banging into the wall rhythmically.

"Do it," Steve gasps. "Fuck _please_ come on them, I'm so _close_ —"

"Fuck!" The veins that rope Bucky's cock pulse as he comes, decorating Steve's tits and cleavage with strand after strand of translucent white. Steve whimpers, thrusting against nothing. "Look at this big sloppy thing." He trails his metal fingertips up the underside of Steve's cock, and by the time his knuckles reach the head it's wet. He works a solitary fingertip against Steve's slit, then strums the sensitive spot under the tip until tears streak down Steve's face. "Hey. Look at me. So gorgeous, baby. Just can't stop making you come. You think I'm forming a habit?" He plays with Steve's balls, gently tugging on the delicate skin, his fingers easing farther between Steve's cheeks with every pass.

Steve licks his lips. "I can manage with spit, if—"

Bucky kisses the inside of his thigh. "This ain't amateur hour. Slick's in my go bag."

Steve laughs, rolling his eyes shut. "Of course."

After toweling off and retrieving the lubricant, Steve lays down on his stomach.

Chest and cock aching, Bucky kisses his bare shoulder. "Mm. Roll over for me, sweetheart." Steve looks surprised when he turns over. Bucky slides a pillow under his hips, kneels between his legs and fills his own palm with lube, smoothing it down the shaft of his cock as he situates his knees under Steve's ass.

As he strokes himself, Steve reaches up to push his hair behind ears and touch his face, arms and chest. He cups a handful of lube between Steve's cheeks. Steve flinches at the cold, then watches Bucky stroke himself, the blush he wears darkening. "So much of you."

Bucky lifts one of Steve's legs and puts it over his right shoulder. "Mm. You did that, baby." He kisses Steve's calf, then puts his other leg over his left shoulder, bearing down and driving him into the mattress with just Bucky's weight.

The right side of Steve's mouth ticks up. "You know how much I love creating problems and then solving them."

Laughing, Bucky wraps his forearms around Steve's calves. "Ain't that the truth." He rubs the head of his cock up and down Steve's perineum, then down toward his hole, pushing the wide head into the indentation, then backing off only to return again and linger longer, and again, and again, until Steve groans and rocks his hips in lazy pursuit. Bucky finally meets Steve with full resistance—Steve makes a soft, pained noise as the tip forces him open.

"Shit," Steve pants, "sh-shit, shit, _shit_."

Bucky sinks down into unbearably tight heat. The yielding is sweet as sugar—Steve's strong legs dragging him in, ignoring Steve's cock trapped between them as Bucky wallows, grinding his hips in slow circles, working himself deep.

"F _uck_ you're big," Steve whines, crossing his ankles over the middle of Bucky's back.

Bucky pulls out what he managed to fit slowly, then pushes back just as slowly, savoring the pinch halfway in, then the relief of getting past that last resistance and feeling his pelvis and Steve's thighs meet. He cranes over Steve, folding him in half, and kisses him slow and soft, letting himself lose time.

" _Bucky_." Steve presses his face against Bucky's shoulder, then turns and bites down where his neck and shoulder meet, holding on as Bucky rocks him into the bed. "B-Bucky."

Bucky growls softly, going faster, making the bed frame squeak. "Yeah, keep sayin' it, doll. Gonna make me—" He fumbles between them, determined to take Steve with him, but Steve protests.

"No, don't, just fuck me." His eyes are wild and wet as he grips Bucky's shoulders, spearing Bucky's mouth with his tongue, his fingers buried in Bucky's long hair. "Don't stop. Don't stop." Bucky stops holding back. He grips Bucky's flexing ass and presses their foreheads together. "D-do it."

"Yeah? Right in there?"

"Fuck."

"Deep as I can get it?"

"Fuck!"

"Make your belly swell up?"

Steve sobs and comes untouched between their bodies, jerking like a fish on the line—more than enough to push Bucky over the edge. The bed frame squeals, cracks but holds, as Bucky pounds Steve into it and comes so long and hard he can't find himself around the edges of his orgasm after the fact.

"Jesus," he pants into Steve's temple. "Jesus fucking Christ."

"That," Steve declares to the ceiling, "may be a new record."

Bucky bites his earlobe with a low, rumbling hum. "Have I set the bar too high right outta the gate?"

Steve laughs, rolling them over and straddling him, clearly unconcerned about how filthy they are. Blushing, he rubs his palms up Bucky's chest. "Better than a long weekend, one might say."

Bucky feigns shock. "No."

"Yeah, without a doubt."

"I won't tell him if you won't. I like Thor."

Steve smiles evasively. "I mean, it's not a question of skill or...physical attributes. You do possess unique advantages."

Bucky raises an eyebrow. "Uh-huh."

Pausing, Steve thumbs his collarbones. "Come on, Buck."

At this point, he's only giving Steve shit; he knows where this is going. "What? You jump, I follow; that's how this works."

"Fair enough." Steve smiles. "I want this. With you." He inhales, exhales. "Every day."

Bucky traces his nose, then sweeps a thumb across his bottom lip. "One condition." Steve tilts his head. "I get to tell Sam."

"Bucky."

"While my tongue is in your mouth."

"Bucky!"

 

*

 

"Motherfuckers, I knew it," Sam hisses, eyes narrowing. "Get the hell off the kitchen counter!"

Fleeing with Bucky right behind him, Steve laughs. "Perfect timing."

"Definitely made up for the 'menace not murder' bumper sticker he left on my locker."

"The one with the flowers around the edges?"

Bucky glares, still jogging. "The very one."

"Handmade?"

"Possibly."

"I dunno, I think it's charming." In the elevator, Steve reels Bucky in by his waist and kisses him. "Home?"

Bucky presses Steve back into the elevator wall, feeling no need to answer. He already is home.

 


End file.
